


Five Lumps

by SCFrankles



Series: The Tea Set [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Humor, in which Sherlock and John are teapots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something dark is brewing at Baker Street.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock, a Holmes teapot, is sent five sugar lumps and a series of connected cases ensues.</p>
<p>Can Sherlock and his cupboard-mate John solve them all? And just who is behind this sinister scheme..?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Lumps

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from [Two for Tea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841367) but will hopefully still make sense even if you haven't read that one. Both stories were inspired by [this photograph](http://consultingcupcake.tumblr.com/post/36519345468/consulting-teapots-once-i-feel-in-the-mood) by Consulting Cup Cake on Tumblr.
> 
> Holmes and Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Sherlock and John property of Moffat and Gatiss, and the BBC; The Consulting Teapots and their cosies belong to [Consulting Cup Cake](http://consultingcupcake.tumblr.com/).
> 
> * * *

John was a little blue teapot, short but stout of heart. Sherlock was a tall teapot, elegant and milky white.

Molly was tiny, and full of sweetness. She was a sugar bowl.

The three of them were on the kitchen table at 221 Baker Street, surrounded by the remains of Mrs Hudson’s breakfast. Only Molly had played an active role in that. Mrs Hudson was lending the two teapots out to the Women’s Institute for a get-together later that morning, and they were already partially wrapped up. John smiled at how excited Sherlock was. He was clearly hoping that a new case would present itself once they were out and about.

“Where’s Mike?” John asked Molly.

“Mrs Hudson’s just giving him a rinse,” she said.

John glanced over at where his milk jug friend was being swirled under the tap by their owner. He liked Mike and Molly - not as exciting as Sherlock perhaps, but they were both intelligent company and thoroughly good sorts.

Like John, they were secondhand. “Used to be part of a larger Grey tea set,” Sherlock had explained to him. “A wedding present.”

Apparently the two of them had been the only survivors of the final argument before the divorce.

Even Sherlock seemed to have enough tact to keep off the subject in front of them. Though Molly and Mike appeared pretty tough. Molly would occasionally brightly joke, “We bounced back!” Which made Sherlock scowl in a very entertaining manner.

Mrs Hudson dried Mike off and replaced him on the kitchen table.

“Come on, Mungo!” she called to her bulldog and they disappeared off for their daily walk.

“Sherlock’s got good news for you,” said John to Mike and Molly, as soon as Mrs Hudson had gone.

“Oh, yes?” said Mike hesitantly.

What Sherlock declared to be “good” didn’t necessarily match everyone else’s definition.

“Has Mrs Hudson bought something new for her collection?” asked Molly. “I saw her checking her emails earlier and she was smiling… And I suppose the piece must be directly related to us or you wouldn’t have described it as ‘good news’…”

John grinned to himself as Sherlock jumped in before Molly could steal any more of his thunder.

“Yes, yes, well done, Molly,” he said.

He attempted to look dramatic. Difficult while partially encased in bubble wrap.

“Mrs Hudson has found you a new teapot!”

Molly and Mike looked underwhelmed.

Mrs Hudson’s collection was made up of many different kinds of crockery but she was especially keen when it came to buying teapots. And she’d been trying for quite a while to find one that might go with her bereft milk jug and sugar bowl. There were several “near-misses” living in the kitchen.

“So it’s a good match..?” asked Molly cautiously. She was used to disappointment.

Sherlock sighed with impatience.

“Five days ago Mrs Hudson was doing her regular online search for interesting new pieces. Forty-three minutes in, she found something. From her reaction, something exceptional - something she had been looking for but not expecting to find. She looked across at you Molly, and Mike. So, something to do with a Grey tea set. She then briefly glanced at John and myself. Which suggests the piece was specifically another teapot.”

John watched Sherlock with a small smile. He was enjoying this.

The detective continued. “But Mrs Hudson only looked at you and Mike _once_. She wasn’t comparing you and the teapot over and over again to see how well you matched.”

Sherlock smirked. “She knew she didn’t have to. It was a _perfect_ match. She’s found a real Grey teapot.”

There was a pause.

And then a lot of cheering, laughing and congratulating - and Molly managed to get sugar all over the tablecloth.

Molly and Mike weren’t grey in colour, of course. They were both a delicate primrose yellow with vertical blue stripes. Grey was the name of the company. Their goods weren’t as rare and expensive as the Watsons and the Holmeses but nevertheless their lines were highly sort-after.

“And our pattern especially so,” Molly was explaining for the twenty-eighth time. “We were the last batch before they discontinued it. Now they use apricot and the lines go round _horizontally_ …”

“Thank you, Molly,” said Sherlock. “Whether the lines go down or around or shooting across in a starburst, this is really of no importance.”

John tensed. He’d been on the end of Sherlock’s “mind cupboard” lecture many times: his explanation about discarding anything from his memory that wasn’t necessary for his work. John sincerely hoped they weren’t about to get yet another performance.

Happily at this point Mrs Hudson returned. She was carrying a cardboard box close to her chest.

“That was lucky wasn’t it?” she said to the dog. “Bumping into the courier outside.”

She placed the box carefully on the kitchen table. “Wish he hadn’t been so rough though. Just shoved it at me and was off again. People have no manners now…”

Mike and Molly watched with growing excitement as Mrs Hudson opened the parcel up and gently eased the packaging out. Even Sherlock looked intrigued.

Finally Mrs Hudson removed the final layer – a piece of fine-quality cloth.

And there he was in front of them: the new Grey teapot.

“Hello,” he said shyly. “I’m Midge.”

 

Sherlock and John had to go soon after that. Mrs Turner from next door came to collect them and take them to the Women’s Institute. They left Molly and Mike talking happily to their new colleague, who was having great difficulty getting a word in edgeways.

 

* * *

 

The walls of the WI were a delightfully cool pale green, and the summer sunlight was streaming in at the windows. The members were chatting, laughing and generally enjoying themselves. John and Sherlock themselves stood together on a small side table, on a fresh, white lace tablecloth.

“Isn’t it hateful,” said Sherlock.

John ignored him. He was chatting to a charming silver teaspoon and having a brilliant time.

“It’s so quiet,” Sherlock went on. “No crime. What are we doing here? They don’t even need us for the tea - the urn could easily have managed on his own.”

John glanced across at the tea urn, standing on the trestle table at the back of the room. He didn’t seem in the best of health. Alarming sounds kept emanating from his direction.

Probably could do with seeing an electrician, thought John. And possibly a plumber.

“I’m bored!” said Sherlock. “Why am I here?”

John sighed. “Perhaps they just wanted something pretty to look at.”

The teaspoon giggled, and Sherlock glared at her.

“Do please stop flirting with the cutlery, John,” he snapped.

Just then, the urn exploded.

 

* * *

 

Amidst the chaos they were quickly bundled back into their packaging and travel box, and somebody’s boyfriend returned them to Mrs Hudson. She was at first puzzled by their rapid reappearance and then, once she’d heard what had happened, relieved they were both all right.

“Am I resting on your lid?” John asked Sherlock, shifting a little in the box after it had been put down.

“How could I _know?_ ” said Sherlock. He located his lid tucked neatly down beside him. “No, it’s here.”

“Then what..?”

Mrs Hudson lifted John out tenderly and placed him on the table. She reached in again for Sherlock and set him down next to John.

“Are you OK?!” cried Molly.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, dismissing her concern.

John quite fancied a bit of sympathy himself and smiled gratefully at Molly. Mike gave him a worried grin. Midge was hanging about on the edge of things looking anxious. Probably wondering what he’s got himself into, poor teapot, thought John.

Mrs Hudson looked in the box again. “Oh…”

She lifted out a small stack of saucers. Sherlock stared at them.

“Oh, what a shame,” sighed Mrs Hudson. “They’ve given me someone else’s things. I suppose with all the confusion…”

Something else in the box caught her eye. A tiny rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. She took it out.

“It’s addressed to ‘Holmes’!”

Mrs Hudson was laughing.

“Are people sending you post now?” she asked her Holmes teapot.

John watched Sherlock - he looked tense rather than amused.

Mrs Hudson pulled the paper off the package. Underneath was a plain white cardboard box.

She lifted off the lid, and John stared curiously at the contents.

Inside there were five sugar lumps.

 

* * *

 

John had laughed with relief but Sherlock was taking it very seriously.

“You don’t think it’s something to do with the explosion?” John asked.

“I recognise those saucers,” said Sherlock.

Now that John looked at the saucers closely he thought he could see a slight resemblance between them and Sherlock – not as obvious as the one between Molly, Mike and Midge, but a similar kind of style.

“They’re from my factory,” said Sherlock. “They went missing years ago.”

He gazed directly at John. “I remember the matching cups. They had to be sold as seconds.”

He looked away again.

“I suspected the saucers had been kidnapped. But only four had gone. I tried to convince the other teapots there was cause for concern but they thought there had simply been a miscount during the manufacturing process.”

“So,” said John, “someone stole the saucers and kept them all this time.”

He looked puzzled.

“But why take them in the first place? What would be the point?”

“Envy? Mischief?” Sherlock half-smiled. “I can’t be the only one who gets bored.”

“Is that it then?” said John. “Someone gets your attention with an explosion and then allows you to solve an old case?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I think this is just the beginning.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning, John and Sherlock were lifted down from their cupboard, 221B, to find Lestrade waiting for them. John had a lot of time for Lestrade. No matter how heated things got, he never blew his top. But that’s kettles for you.

“What’s happened?” asked Sherlock.

“The tomato ketchup bottle’s gone missing,” said Lestrade. “It was reported by the brown sauce bottle fifteen minutes ago.”

He indicated some patches of sauce on the counter and on the floor below them. “Seems like foul play.”

He looked to one side. “There’s also these.” Sherlock and John followed his gaze.

Four lumps of sugar placed neatly in a row. John glanced at Sherlock. His friend didn’t appear surprised to see them.

“They were put here after the sauce,” Sherlock said, looking at them intently. “One lump is half-standing in a patch and is partially dissolved, but there are no specks of sauce anywhere else on it or on any of the others at all.”

He stared hard at the patches of sauce.

“The ketchup bottle,” he demanded. “Squeezy or glass?”

“Squeezy,” said Lestrade. “Do you want to talk to the brown sauce?”

 

Sherlock didn’t generally have much to do with the condiments and he and the brown sauce hadn’t met before. Like her missing companion, she was a squeezy bottle of medium size.

“He loved it in the kitchen. Never wanted to leave,” she sobbed.

“He did seem like a cheerful kind of chap,” said Sherlock in a disconcertingly sympathetic manner.

The brown sauce hesitated a little. “No, he was feeling a little run-down recently…”

Sherlock smiled suddenly.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

 

“So what do you want to look at next?” asked John. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

“No, I’ve solved it,” said Sherlock.

“Really?” said Lestrade.

Sherlock glared at him.

“There’s a smear in the ketchup on the floor that’s highly suggestive of a tongue,” he said. “Mrs Hudson is not going to be licking sauce off the kitchen lino so…”

“The bulldog’s the guilty one!” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock.

John and Lestrade shared an exasperated look.

“Yes, the bulldog took the ketchup but… it’s the _ketchup_ that’s the guilty party,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade stared at him. “Explain,” he said.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering “how do you manage with those tiny brains?” sigh.

“Why did the brown sauce try to convince me that the ketchup hadn’t left voluntarily when you’d _already_ assumed there’d been foul play? Because she knew that he _had_   left of his own free will.”

“So she was lying,” said Lestrade.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Everything she told me was the truth. He didn’t want to leave the kitchen but he felt he had to.”

He indicated the sauce on the counter.

“Look at the spatter pattern. Small amounts forced out abruptly and explosively. There wasn’t much left in the bottle – it was mostly air. The bottle was _run-down_. He was coming to the end of his life in the kitchen. On his way to the bin or the recycling plant.

“So, a plan is concocted. He squeezes out a little sauce on the counter and smears it on his exterior. Throws himself onto the floor where the dog finds him. Mungo is attracted by the sauce and picks up the bottle to chew it - eventually carrying it off.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade.

“This was all a plot to start a new life in the dog basket. The brown sauce was going to wait a while until her contents ran down too and then she was going to repeat the plan and follow her partner.”

Sherlock grinned. “A judicious ‘Good boy, fetch!’ to Mungo should be enough to bring the fugitive back.”

 

* * *

 

“That was a clever plan,” said John, when they were back in 221B that night.

“Far too clever for the ketchup and brown sauce to have come up with,” said Sherlock. “Someone’s obviously suggested it to them.”

He smiled. “Perhaps our mysterious saucer thief.”

“You’re enjoying this,” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He paused. “Do you disapprove?”

John sighed. “Whoever’s behind this is dangerous. Remember the tea urn? That poor sod’s not going to be brewing up again any time soon.”

The cupboard door had been left open just a crack and John stared out into the kitchen.

“Just try and remember this isn’t a game,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Everything seemed quiet the following morning.

It didn’t last long.

 

Lestrade, Sherlock and John were gathered round the remains of a fruit scone - crumbs and sultanas scattered in every direction.

Everyone in the kitchen had witnessed it. Mrs Hudson had taken one bite and then the mouthful had come flying out again, accompanied by an obvious expression of disgust.

Mrs Hudson had quickly disappeared after that - presumably in order to change her blouse, which had received the full force of the shower.

In her distress she hadn’t noticed but Sherlock had spotted them immediately: inside the open cake tin there were three new sugar lumps.

 

Molly and Mike were examining the pieces of the scone, with Midge hovering in the background being of no great assistance. Lestrade, John and Sherlock waited tensely for Molly’s opinion.

A sudden jangling and yelling made them jump.

Everyone stared at the cutlery drawer.

“It’s those flaming sugar tongs again,” said Lestrade. “They’ve been picking fights ever since Mrs Hudson switched to granulated.”

John listened attentively to all the inventive swearing. “Sounds as though they’re having a scrap with the toffee hammer,” he said.

“More than likely,” said Lestrade. “That hammer’s always looking for trouble and he’s more than happy to join in when he finds it.”

The noises got louder.

“Shut up!” Lestrade shouted. “We’re trying to solve a crime out here.”

There was a little more banging but things calmed down again.

An awkward pause followed. Molly seemed a little flustered.

“That hammer reminds me,” said Mike suddenly. “Do you remember the commemorative toffee they used to sell at our workshop, Molly?”

“Yes! Rum and butter.” Molly looked a great deal more cheerful.

“Your workshop sold toffee?” asked John, intrigued.

“Sort of,” beamed Molly. “There used to be tours round the factory and at the end everyone got a commemorative dish with toffees in it.”

Her smile was getting ever broader. “Do you remember the toffees, Midge?” she asked.

“Must have been after my time…” said Midge timidly.

“Yes, well, that’s fascinating,” said Sherlock. “If we could just get back to the point now.”

Molly and Midge looked mortified. John sent a silent “behave yourself” in Sherlock’s direction.

“I can’t see anything superficially wrong,” Molly said hurriedly. “And we know Mrs Hudson baked these scones herself.”

“Could it have been something that was added later?” suggested John.

Sherlock was staring at the largest part of the late scone. “Is that sugar on top? Mrs Hudson doesn’t usually add more sugar…” He stopped.

John knew immediately what he was thinking about. That first adventure they had undertaken together. The tea drinkers who had been manipulated into putting salt into their cups.

The sinister teapot that had been behind it all.

“You think it’s salt?” he said.

“It looks likely,” said Sherlock.

He compared the consistency with Molly’s sugar, not noticing her embarrassment. Sherlock nodded at John.

“You think it’s him then - the Moriarty,” said John.

“I’m certain of it,” said Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

“Well, this is new,” said Sherlock the following morning.

Lestrade hadn’t been able to read it, as it was upside down from his point of view on the counter. But as soon as their cupboard door was opened, he had alerted Sherlock and John.

Now they were on the table, Molly and her colleagues looking on anxiously, as Sherlock and John stared at a message that had been spelt out in tea leaves:

 

_It may look overcast._

_But it’s a lot darker than that._

 

Each full stop was a sugar lump. Sherlock exchanged a look with John.

“They’ve taken a hostage!” cried a porridge bowl abruptly.

Lestrade, John and Sherlock turned and immediately they heard it - a tiny voice calling for help.

“It’s an eggcup!” said Lestrade in horror.

“There must be more to it…” muttered Sherlock.

“A kidnapped eggcup isn’t enough?” said John.

“The eggcup is obviously secreted in the oven gloves,” said Sherlock. “There must be something else - something the Moriarty wants us to work out.”

“A booby trap?” asked John.

“Maybe,” said Sherlock.

He scanned the kitchen.

The inhabitants of the Welsh dresser were in great distress but apart from the missing eggcup there was nothing out of place.

The floor. The walls. He looked at the counter. Lestrade stared back at him anxiously.

Not a single clue.

Sherlock brought his attention back to the table. John was worried but attempting to hide it. Sherlock glanced at Mike, Molly and Midge. They were watching him so intently, convinced of his infallibility. So sure he would come up with the answer.

The Grey tea set. At this moment he was irritated by their admiration for him. His thoughts were distracted by their ridiculous matching pattern.

Something caught his attention at the back of his mind cupboard. Something recent. He’d thought it was unimportant but he hadn’t thrown it out yet.

He took a closer look at the Grey teapot.

And down at the base he saw it.

Midge had lost a minute chip of paint, and it was just possible to see another colour underneath.

Under the primrose he was chocolate brown.

“Midge,” said Sherlock calmly. “You’re a little younger than Molly and Mike, aren’t you?”

Midge appeared bemused by the out of the blue question. “I suppose...”

“You don’t remember the toffees at the factory,” continued Sherlock. “It was ‘before your time’.”

Midge half-smiled, unsure, but Molly and Mike were beginning to understand.

“We were the last batch…” said Molly.

“If you’re younger, you should be apricot with horizontal stripes. But you match Molly and Mike’s pattern.” Sherlock stared unwaveringly at Midge.

“Not ‘ _overcast_ ’ but ‘ _darker_ ’. You’re not Grey. Your original brown has been repainted.

“You’re a fake.”

Midge slowly grinned.

“It took you long enough,” he said, his accent and demeanour changing. He wasn’t sweet and timid any more.

“You’re the Moriarty,” said John.

The Moriarty smirked. “Oh, we’re all friends now. Call me Jim.”

He looked extremely pleased with himself. “D’you get it? Turn Jim backwards and you get ‘Mij’.”

The Moriarty looked around at the shocked expressions.

“No?” He appeared almost put out. “I thought it was rather clever.”

The light-heartedness disappeared and something more unpleasant took its place.

“Well, I have enjoyed this game, Sherlock,” he said. “Playing _Grey_. I needed to distract you while I made a few allies in your kitchen. And I can’t deny it hasn’t been enormous fun.”

He smiled.

“But I’ve finished stirring things up now. It’s time for the final lump.”

The sugar tongs and the toffee hammer slid out from their hiding place under a tea towel. Before anyone had time to react, the tongs were gripping John’s spout tightly and the hammer was positioned against the seam where the spout joined onto John’s body.

“You’re interfering with my work, Sherlock. I can’t allow that to continue,” said the Moriarty. “So here’s the deal.”

He looked steadily at Sherlock.

“I want you to throw yourself off the table.”

“ _No!_ ” said John.

The hammer tapped lightly on his spout. Sherlock looked appealingly at John, and John returned to being silent.

“If you do this, all your friends will be left alone. If you refuse…” He grinned. “Well, I’ll start by making sure your little sidekick never pours again.”

There was an unbearable pause. Then: “All right,” said Sherlock.

John stared in horror but Sherlock wouldn’t return his gaze.

“Get on with it then,” said the Moriarty, cheerfully. “My owner Colonel Moran will be along shortly to collect me and I wouldn’t want him to hurt your Mrs Hudson.”

Of course - the ‘courier’, and ‘the boyfriend of someone from the WI’, thought Sherlock. Presumably a worker at the Holmes factory as well when the saucers went missing.

He glanced briefly and pleadingly at Molly, flicking his gaze to John and back to her. She seemed puzzled for a moment, then he saw that she understood. Everyone knew you could count on Molly in times of need. People so often took her for granted.

Sherlock was grateful for that at this moment. No-one was paying any attention to Molly at all.

Which was why it was a complete surprise to the hammer and tongs when she suddenly tipped herself up, and catapulted her sugar all over them.

The tongs released their hold and toppled over. The hammer was disorientated and took a swipe at John. But the heaped sugar cushioned the blow, and all that happened was a _crunch_ as the hammer hit the granules.

Sherlock took his opportunity. He threw himself at the Moriarty.

There was a struggle. They rocked together to and fro – the Moriarty putting up a fight despite his smaller build.

But gravity was on Sherlock’s side.

 

The Moriarty screamed.

For an eternity he seemed to be balanced on the edge of the table, and then abruptly he was gone.

But the momentum meant Sherlock himself was still moving. He tried to alter his course but it was an impossibility.

He thought he heard a shout from John.

And then he too went over.

 

John got as close to the edge as he could manage, and looked down in desperation.

There on the kitchen floor they lay together - Sherlock and the Moriarty, both smashed to pieces.

 

* * *

 

Some months had gone by. The first shock was over.

John had his work, brewing tea. He had his friends.

He was OK.

But things would never be the same without Sherlock.

 

Mrs Hudson was on her second cup of tea when the phone rang.

John couldn’t help but overhear how excited she was. After she put the receiver down she left immediately, without even coming back into the kitchen to finish her drink.

John sighed, and patiently waited as the tea still inside him stewed and cooled.

Mrs Hudson was back within an hour with a box held firmly in her arms. She opened it up carefully on the kitchen table, and started to remove the packaging inside. John had a strange feeling of anticipation and supressed excitement, though he wasn’t sure what for. Mrs Hudson was always buying new pieces. It did look like this was a teapot but so what? It could never be…

Mrs Hudson lifted the contents of the box out onto the table, and gently removed the final layer of packaging. She beamed at the unveiled teapot.

John stared. It couldn’t be. It must be another Holmes teapot.

He felt dizzy.

“It is me, John,” said Sherlock.

John tried to speak. “How?” he managed in the end.

“Mrs Hudson found some excellent restorers,” said Sherlock. “The damage wasn’t so great that they couldn’t reassemble me.”

“What about the… other one?” asked John.

“There was nothing they could do for him,” said Sherlock. “Pity - the Moriarty was a worthy adversary.”

He caught John’s expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said hesitantly. “I know this can’t have been easy for you.”

John smiled fiercely. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

“Things won’t be exactly the same though,” said Sherlock, looking away. “I’m watertight but I can’t hold hot liquids any more.”

It took a moment for John to understand. “Your work.” His teabags sank. “Mrs Hudson won’t be able to lend you out - you won’t have any more cases.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Lestrade will let me help him occasionally in the kitchen. That’s something.”

John wasn’t fooled. He knew how difficult this was going to be for his friend.

“Sherlock…” he said.

But Mrs Hudson interrupted him.

“Oh, Mr Doyle’s done a wonderful job,” she said to Sherlock. She couldn’t contain her delight.

“And don’t worry - you can still go on your little trips out with your Watson. I’ve had an idea…”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John were once again at the WI. And just as before, the company was pleasant and the sun was shining.

John was wearing a smart-casual woolly cosy and was filled to the brim with strong, black tea.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was full of the finest London tap water.

And a mixed bunch of pompon dahlias.

John looked at Sherlock.

“Oh, shut up,” said Sherlock.

John grinned at him. And then they got on with investigating who was stealing the teaspoons.

 

Sherlock knew that the flower situation didn’t really matter. Teapot? Vase? The body is just a vessel.

In the end, it’s the work - and friends - that count.


End file.
